The mayor waved Mr. Nesbitt III to his side.

"I have a brief statement to make," the mayor began. "A terrible tragedy took place in our city, and nothing can ever make that right. But I want to take this opportunity to say how proud I am not only of our police department and the office of the district attorney but of our concerned, involved citizens as well.

"As soon as it came to his attention that as the result of some really first-class investigative work by the police department, and some really first-class legal work by Mrs. Solomon and her associates, the man charged with this heinous crime was in custody in Alabama, Mr. Nesbitt, of Nesfoods International, called to offer the use of his corporate aircraft-at no cost whatever to the city-to bring the accused murderer to Philadelphia to face justice. Thank you, Mr. Nesbitt."

"It seemed the least we at Nesfoods could do, Mr. Mayor," Mr. Nesbitt said. "Nesfoods International likes to think we are responsible corporate citizens of Philadelphia."

"And I have to say this," the mayor went on, "there has been some unfortunate, and in my judgment, unfair comments in some of the press lately to the effect that certain police officers were spending too much time protecting my good friend Stan Colt from the ardor of his fans, when what they should have been doing was trying to apprehend a murderer. I think this proves beyond any doubt that our police can do both things at the same time."

Mayor Martin did not take questions. He turned and ducked quickly into his waiting limousine.

Mr. Nesbitt III shook hands with Sergeant Payne and ducked into his waiting limousine. District Attorney Solomon said, "Good work, you guys," and got into her unmarked Crown Victoria.

Commissioner Mariani shook Sergeant Payne's hand and got into his Crown Victoria.

Captain Quaire and Lieutenant Washington walked up.

"What next, boss?" Sergeant Payne asked.

"Come to work in the morning," Washington said, "after you finish your detail with Dignitary Protection. I understand Mr. Colt is leaving at eleven-fifteen tomorrow morning."

"I was supposed to leave after the last thing tonight," Stan Colt said. "But I didn't want to leave without seeing you. I want to hear everything that happened."

"There's not much to tell," Matt said.

"Bullshit. After this thing tonight, I'm throwing a little thank-you party at La Famiglia. You, Mickey, your pal Nesbitt Four, Terry, a handful of others."

"Stan, I don't know…"

"It's all laid on. You can't say no now. I gotta go. One more lunch-which I'm already late for-and this thing tonight, and then I'm done."

Commissioner Coughlin nodded, which Detective Payne correctly interpreted to mean was an order to him to attend Mr. Colt's little thank-you party tonight. And to tell him everything that happened.

Mr. Colt then punched Sergeant Payne in the shoulder and got in his limousine. Highway Patrol officers kicked their bikes into life and, sirens growling, led the way out of the airport.

"If my children," Brewster C. Payne said, "don't mind having lunch with a couple of old men, Denny and I are about to have ours."

"He doesn't have any choice in the matter," Dr. Payne said. "I want to hear about this guy."

"So do I," Deputy Commissioner Coughlin said. "How about right here at the Flatspin? They do a really nice Mahi-Mahi."

TWENTY

[ONE] There was a telephone in a niche in the low fieldstone wall around the patio of the Payne house in Wallingford, but when it rang, Patricia Payne really didn't want to answer it.

Feeling just a little ashamed of herself-this has to be prurient interest-the truth was that she was fascinated by the interrogation of her son by her husband and her daughter concerning his encounter with Homer C. Daniels.

She had known Amelia M. Payne, M.D., from before she had taken her first steps-and was in fact the only mother Amy had ever known-and she had given birth to Matt. They were her children.

And she had taken maternal pride in both. Amy was a certified genius, and while Matt wasn't as smart, he had graduated summa cum laude from Pennsylvania. And she knew that her husband was a very good lawyer, and Amy a highly regarded psychiatrist, and Matt was carrying his father's sergeant's badge.

But knowing that hadn't prepared her for sitting with them and listening to them speak of this unspeakable crime, and the man who had committed it, and his motivations, and the legal aspects of the whole sordid series of events as professionals, rather than father and son and daughter.

And it wasn't just an idle conversation. They had been at it over an hour, ever since Brewster's sedate black Cadillac had unexpectedly led Amy's battered Suburban and Matt's unmarked police Ford into the drive. When he had called from the Flatspin Restaurant where they had had lunch, she had asked what the chances were of having "the children" home for supper. He had said he'd see. From his tone of voice, it had seemed unlikely.

But then they'd appeared, surprising and pleasing her. Brewster had said Matt couldn't come for supper, he had to be with Stan Colt, so they'd come now. They'd immediately gone out to the patio, arranged themselves on the comfortably upholstered lawn furniture, and started talking about Homer C. Daniels.

Without being asked, Mrs. Newman, the Payne house-keeper-a comfortable looking gray-haired woman in her fifties-had produced a pot of coffee and a tray with toasted rye bread, liverwurst, mustard, and sliced raw onions, and then taken a chair by the door. Patricia was pleased to see Mrs. Newman was as fascinated with Mr. Homer C. Daniels as she was.

And then the phone rang, and Patricia didn't want to talk to anyone, and said as much.

"Grab that, please, Elizabeth," she called. "And get rid of whoever it is. I'll call them back."

Mrs. Newman took her walk-around telephone from a pocket in her dress and spoke into it. Then she got up and walked to them.

"Mrs. Nesbitt for Mr. Payne," she said. "She won't take 'no' for an answer."

"Damn!" Brewster C. Payne, Esq., said.

"Not you," Mrs. Newman said. "Young Mrs. Nesbitt for Young Mr. Payne."

"Shit," Young Mr. Payne said.

"Matty!" his mother said.

Mrs. Newman handed him the phone.

"And how is the somewhat careless caretaker of my god-daughter? "

"God, you're such an asshole, Matt…" Daffy Nesbitt said.

"Thank you for sharing that with me. I'll tell Mother what you said."

"… but despite that, I'm going to do you a favor."

"Oh, God!"

"I probably really shouldn't tell you this, but Chad said I should."

"You're in the family way again?"

"No, goddamn it!"

"Can we get to the point of this fascinating conversation, please?"

"We're having a few people in here before we make an appearance at the Four Seasons thing," Daffy said.

"What people?" Matt asked.

"Old friends of ours, of yours," Chad said.

"And I want you to show up in black tie and spare us your usual bad manners," Daffy said.

"What's in it for me?"

"Terry," Chad Nesbitt chimed in.

"She's the door prize?"

Chad laughed.

"I can't imagine why," Daffy said. "But she really likes you. She asked if you would be coming."

Now, that's interesting!

Detective Lassiter's cellular phone was reported out of service. And messages left on her answering machine and at Northwest Detectives asking that she call him had brought no response.

"Tell me more," Matt said.

"You could take Terry to the Colt dinner at the Four Seasons and then to La Famiglia."

"Whose idea is that?"

"Mine," Daffy said. "She's not throwing herself at you."

"Well, I don't know. I like it better when they throw themselves at me."